Faded
by darknessinflight
Summary: Timeline: ToG6 Place: Doranelle Wordcount: 839. That's so short, I cry. Warning: Angst? My first ToG drabble. Prays hard. Constructive Criticism is appreciated


Sometimes she stared unblinkingly at the dark iron lid, closed and too near to her face, dark - almost lightless - save for the flickering soft pulse of when she tried to burn one of her chains. It was mostly for illumination, so that she could see, because darkness reminded her too much of pain - of that time she nearly drowned, when darkness had overcome her for a moment; of the year in Endovier, forced under a cave, underground, or in those midnight cells, never seeing the sun.

Then her vision blurred, whether it was because of the dust from the iron, or tears springing into her eyes when she thought of Rowan, and she squeezed her eyes shut, thankful for the release into sleep.

But sleep came with dreams, and those were sometimes worse. They weren't nightmares, there were no feeling of fear or trepidation or the dread of the unknown terror. No, they were always dreams, filled with the joy and laughter, of Dorian and her in a pile of books, laughing more than they were reading, joking about how they had gone through worse than the characters, which then turn into a lively banter about who had the worse fate. She always won, but then the dream faded to black.

Other times, she was with Rowan. She tried to ignore the pain in her chest when she saw him when he whispered _Fireheart_ and the only reply she could muster was _you shouldn't have come for me_. Gods, she tried to enjoy the seconds when Rowan brushed her tears away, when his scent, of pine and snow - of home, gods, she missed Terrasen - when he smoothed her back and his hands crept over her scars, now just a mess, when he did not fault her for damaging his beautiful tattoos. _Rowan, I…_ Again, the dream faded.

There were more, so painful she was glad they came in flashes: Sam, his fingers so crooked she knew it could not be set; Sam, with careful burns and deep cuts all over him; Sam, and the sharp tang of poison that had paralysed him. Then Nehemia, beautiful, kind Nehemia, who knew from the start her destiny; Nehemia and her dark hair spilling over her head, dark as the blood that stained her room; Nehemia who had come into Adarlan not to raise a rebel group but for her, for the young assassin who was a coward. Nehemia, who had asked her not to let the light go out, but _I'm so sorry, the light is fading._

It thankfully stopped.

She then woke up, felt the emptiness in her heart and almost choked, containing her tears in front of Maeve's men, who roughly shoved her to different locations, to pass by other Faes - especially Fae couples. Cairn whipped her every time, sadistic delight in his eyes so familiar because she had seen it before in the eyes of Celaena. He was so well-versed in the art of torture that he knew how to raise the whip high enough for the crack to be resounding as it hit against her skin, how to time it so the next wave hit just as she began to register the first.

She bit down her lip, nails digging into any soft surface she could touch - most of the time her own body - steeling herself for the lashes and the endless fear that she was back in Endovier, but she never counted. She knew Maeve knew that, that the bitch delighted in seeing her in pain - back arching, lips parted in a silent cry. At least Maeve could not break her. She hoped.

There were better times: the minutes of walking in the hallways, and sometimes the open. Those moments were sad, painful reminders of Rowan and her, of the mates who could not live or die together, but she was grateful. Those moments were spent with Fenrys, in threads of silence and quick, hushed whispers - an affirmation of comfort, not in the fact that they could get out of here, but in the fact that they were together, for bare minutes, once in awhile.

After a while, there stopped being a better time. But still, she clung to the semblance and illusion of safety, clung to pretending that she had someone. Because in truth, she had no one left.

Maeve had stopped sending Fenrys.

Weeks started blurred away, like ripples in a still pond, stronger and bigger, until the reflection was marred. Somewhere along that time she lost faith in surviving, in waking up, in looking around. She stopped hoping - what had she even hoped for? - stopped thinking, just went along with the guards, who even knew that she was so weakened that they stopped being so stern. She knew she should fight, seize the moment and escape, to do _something._

She didn't know. What could she do? Maybe Maeve had really broken her, maybe Maeve knew that too, maybe that was why she had stopped feeling the whip. Or maybe she was just so lost in the darkness, in her own self that she could not sense anything.

 _I'm sorry, Nehemia - the light has gone out._

 _I'm sorry, Rowan - Fireheart isn't beating anymore._


End file.
